


Crimson

by rutherfords (seblaiens)



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Awkward First Times, Awkwardness, Blood, Cunnilingus, F/M, Face-Sitting, First Time, Knifeplay, Loss of Virginity, Virginity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-12
Updated: 2016-12-12
Packaged: 2018-09-08 05:59:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8833105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seblaiens/pseuds/rutherfords
Summary: To think he would ever help a mage fulfilling her dreams of blood magic. Ludicrous.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Uh, hello Dragon Age fandom. Sorry.

Alistair’s hands are sweating when he steps into Morrigan’s tent.

The witch had talked to their group about having to use blood for some of her… witch things, and specifically, that she wanted Alistair’s blood. Why him out of all of them, he doesn’t know – it seems like his luck though, to be the one Morrigan chose. She’s probably planning to kill him after she gets what she wants, or will turn him into a toad once and for all. _At least he’ll be quiet then_ , she had once said. Alistair had only grumbled in response.

Her tent is less sinister than he had imagined it – in his fantasies there were shrines to all sorts of demons she would pray to at night. Not that he fantasised about her tent often – he just… got to thinking, sometimes. He doesn’t get why she sleeps so far away from the group, opening herself up to vulnerability by being on her own, with nobody near her in case they get attacked. His petulant side insists it’s because she can’t even stand sleeping near him, but he’s not self-absorbed enough to fully believe in him being the only reason for her distance.

“I can hear you thinking from here,” Morrigan says, her back turned towards him, “what a nice change.”

Alistair huffs, crossing his arms in front of his chest. He already got rid of his armour, feeling strangely naked wearing only his tunic and a pair of trousers in front of her. He’s glad he’s still got his Templar abilities – if she would try to attack him with any magic, he could stop her. Doesn’t help him if she decides to slap him over the head with her staff, though.

“Take off your tunic,” Morrigan orders.

“Why?”

“Keep it on if you must, but it will be drenched in blood by the end of the night.”

Alistair rolls his eyes, slowly taking off even more of his clothes. He’s glad Morrigan has her back turned towards him; he feels uncomfortable enough stripping in front of her without her hawk eyes on him. He watches as she takes off her glove and the sleeve on her arm as well, probably not wanting to dirty them with his blood and having to wash them again before they could march on in the morning. She puts them down onto the tent’s floor, next to where Alistair’s shirt is lying.

“Lie on the bedroll.”

Alistair hesitates for just a second before following her orders – he doesn’t want to let the others in the team down by pulling out now and refusing to let her bleed him. They would make fun of him, he knows, call him a coward and not let him forget about it for ages. So he lies down on the ground, not knowing what to do with his hands. He rests them on top of his stomach, twisting his fingers together.

He sits up abruptly when Morrigan steps over him, her legs on either side of his body, and lowers herself.

“What are you doing?” He asks as she sits down on his lap, a short knife and a glass flask in her hand.

“It’s quite obvious, isn’t it? I need your blood. Didn’t the others tell you?”

“Yes, but,” Alistair gestures towards his lap, “why do you need to sit on top of me?”

Morrigan crosses her arms in front of her chest, much like Alistair had done before. “It’s only to make the process easier; believe me, I do not get pleasure out of being this close to you.”

Alistair lies back down, trying not to think of the fact that a woman was sitting above his groin, her core pressed against the rough material of his trousers. He’s glad they’re so thick; he doesn’t want to feel more than he does. He swallows hard when Morrigan leans forward, the blade of the knife twinkling in the shine of the fire from outside.

 “Wait-“ Alistair reaches out, holding onto Morrigan’s arm just as she’s about the push it against his throat. “Before you… cut me, tell me; What do you need my blood for?”  
“’Tis is none of your concern,” Morrigan replies, but she lowers the blade again.

“Considering I’m letting you cut me up I think I have the right to know the answer.”

Morrigan sighs exasperated, putting away the knife and letting her hands travel over Alistair’s naked chest. He swallows, heat rising into his cheeks – she’s sitting directly on his lap, if he were to get… excited, she’d be able to feel it.

“There are some spells and potions that require blood to be effective. Yours is particularly… desirable.”

“Because of the whole Grey Warden Templar Noble Bastard thing?”

“Precisely. Now hold still.” Morrigan picks up the blade again, holding it in her right hand while she holds the small glass veil meant to gather Alistair’s blood in the other.

“But-“ Alistair says, reaching for her arm again.

“Stop it!” Morrigan slaps him over the head, pressing the tip of the knife against his pulse point. The movement had made her rock back and forth on Alistair’s groin, and he buries his short fingernails in the bedroll beneath him to keep himself from putting his hands on her. “If you don’t stop fretting I will have to kill you - so you hold still!”

“I just don’t understand why it has to be my throat! It seems very unsafe – couldn’t you just, ah I don’t know… Do it somewhere less life threatening?”

“Do you not believe in my capabilities as a healer?” Morrigan sounds almost insulted, and Alistair raises his hands in surrender to soothe her pride.

“That’s not it, I have no problem believing you can heal the cut after, just… _Oh Maker_ , just get it over with before I change my mind.” Alistair closes his eyes, would have pouted and crossed his arms if Morrigan wouldn’t be sitting on top of him. And really – that’s a whole other issue, one that’s about to get a lot messier as Morrigan presses the blade into his skin, her hips grinding down against him.

Alistair’s mouth dries as he feels blood rushing not only out of the cut on his neck, but also down to his groin, his cock stirring from the repeated stimulation of Morrigan on top of him. For Andraste’s sake, he hopes she is too absorbed in collecting what he’s here from to notice his erection. He doesn’t need to hear about it later – she mocks him enough as it is already.

The cut doesn’t hurt as much as Alistair thought it would – it’s uncomfortable, sure, and he has to bite his teeth together in order to not grunt in pain, but it’s bearable. Blood begins running down his throat, he can feel the sticky hot liquid gather on the pillow below his head, seeping into the cotton. Morrigan is having some difficulty directing the stream into the flask, biting her lip as she tries to angle it so that most of the blood flows into the thin opening instead of down onto the makeshift bed.

“Don’t let me die,” Alistair tries to joke, his voice coming out small and nervous.

“You’re of no use dead,” Morrigan mutters, the tone of her voice completely serious as the flask slowly fills. She corks it and puts it away before laying her hands on Alistair’s throat, healing the cut with her magic. The pain subsides quickly, leaving behind only an uncomfortable feeling Alistair can’t really describe. Like a scab when it stretches, only that there’s nothing physically to stretch - just smooth skin.

Morrigan pulls away her hands, inspecting where moments before a steady stream of blood had trickled down Alistair’s neck. Her hands are covered in his blood, and there’s a considerable amount still on him and soaked into the pillow. She’s always had a thing for blood – dabbling in blood magic and being a woman had made her immune to the sickening feeling most people have when confronted with so much of it. The metallic scent of it is felling the small space of her tent, tickling her nose, and she can’t help herself but bring her nose closer to where the scent is strongest.

“What… are you doing?” Alistair asks as Morrigan presses her nose against him, cold against his irritated skin around where she’d been cutting him. “This doesn’t seem necessary to the ritual.”

“’Tis wasn’t a ritual,” Morrigan says, furrowing her brows, “if it was, I would have had you cuffed and put spells on you.”

Alistair gulps, his cock jerking at the thought of his wrists bound above his head, not able to move with Morrigan on top of him. He can’t help it; even he can admit that she’s good looking, no – more than that. She’s to most attractive woman he’s ever met in all of Ferelden. And she’s not afraid to show it off as well, the thing she’s wearing barely covering her breasts. They sway so nicely, sometimes in battle – he’s been knocked on the ground quite a few times because he had gotten distracted.

And now they’re almost in his face, her necklaces touching his bare torso. If she would lower herself just a slightest bit more, her breasts would touch him as well.

“Well,” Morrigan says, and he can hear the grin in her voice. “Is your little Templar excited to hunt a mage?”

All Alistair can produce is a strangled moan as Morrigan grinds her crotch down against him, simultaneously letting her tongue run through the blood left on his throat. His hands come up to grip her, finally, holding her tightly at her waist as his legs jerk. Maker, he’s never done anything like this before – he’s as virginal as they come, and now he has a Witch of the Wilds writhing above him like a snake about to devour him.

“Morrigan- I-“ he tries to stop her with words, but a well placed bite just above his collarbone makes another moan tumble out of his mouth.

“Please, be quiet for once in your life,” Morrigan says, sitting back on his lap. There’s blood smeared around her mouth, and she carelessly wipes at it with her hand. It’s futile, though, her hand covered even more than her face as she just smears it around.

Alistair nods. When he realises he still has his hands on her, he pulls them away as though her skin burned him. Morrigan sighs and grabs for him, sliding his hands beneath the flimsy material of her shirt, forcing him to touch her skin. He closes his eyes, almost as if he could pretend it wasn’t happening if he wasn’t able to see it.

“Alistair. Open your eyes.”

He opens one of them, squinting at her.

“Both.”

He watches as she slides his hands up further, traveling over her abdomen, stomach, to her chest where she rests them over her breasts, the thin material of what little is covering them the only barrier between them. They’re so soft and warm, and Alistair knows he’s completely hard by now, his cock pressing against Morrigan’s crotch. She doesn’t seem to mind.

“Don’t take away your hands,” Morrigan orders as she takes off the purple top, leaving behind only the strappy little thing meant to resemble a breastband. Alistair almost closes his eyes again, afraid he’ll get too excited watching her take off her clothes for him he’d… mess his trousers. He keeps them open because he doesn’t want her to get mad at him. Again.

Alistair yelps when Morrigan huffs in frustration and grabs his hands again, making him squeeze her breasts. His cock is jumping inside his small clothes, and he bites his lips to keep himself from making any embarrassing noises.

“Alistair.”

“What?” His voice is strained as he tries to think of anything except her tits under his hands and his cock against her groin.

“You should participate. I will _not_ do all the work myself.”

“Hnghh.”

She moves his hands beneath the last barrier of clothing, his fingertips finding her soft skin and hard nipples. They move on their own accord – he can’t keep himself from playing with the hard buds of skin, drawn to them like a moth to a flame. They’re so nice to touch, and they make Morrigan sigh and rock against his erection when he squeezes them. Her arms raise so she can take off the last of the material covering her torso, having a little trouble with all the fine threads holding it together. She has to take off the necklaces as well, and Alistair can’t help but think that her clothes are most impractical for battle.

His thoughts leave his brain as soon as he gets to see her breasts, a vacant emptiness settling in his brain as all he can think is – _breasts_. Naked woman, right in front of him. Well, at least naked above the waist – she is still wearing her skirt and trousers, and Alistair is thankful for that. He doesn’t know if he can take more than this in one night.

There’s blood on her body. His blood, getting there from their dirtied hands drifting all over her skin. It looks almost like war paint, streaks left behind by his fingers exploring her body.

He groans in frustration when Morrigan climbs off him and lies down next to him, the friction of her sitting on his lap lost. He watches as she takes off her shoes, skirt, and trousers, glancing at him before she also pushes down her small clothes. He averts his gaze, his cheeks burning. There’s so much to see, and just the image of her pale, naked legs makes his head spin.

“Come here,” Morrigan orders, pulling him on top of her. He gladly follows, covering the parts of her body he doesn’t want to see yet with his own. She guides his head down to her chest, and Alistair carefully presses kisses onto her breasts, letting his lips travel over them before he ends up on one of her nipples – he takes it in his mouth and lets his tongue lick over it experimentally. She seems to like it, judging by her quiet moan, and he does it to the other nipple as well, slowly gaining confidence as he realises that this is _good_ for Morrigan as well, not just for him.

“Take off your clothes,” Morrigan says, and Alistair follows through after hesitating for a few seconds. To the void with the not being ready thing, he might as well take what he can get before dying trying to slay an arch demon as one of the only two remaining Grey Warden’s in Ferelden.

He pushes down his trousers and small clothes, pushing them down together with his socks before climbing back on top of Morrigan, who reaches between their bodies to guide his cock inside her. He almost comes from her hand on him alone, and he’s not sure how long he would last, trying to tell her that just as she makes him push inside her.

He spills inside her with a strangled cry, burying his face against her neck in shame.

Morrigan, bless her, doesn’t mock him at least as he lies down next to her, breathing heavily and his eyes squeezed shut. He’s embarrassed – he knows enough about love making to know that his performance had been less than stellar, that there was no way it had been pleasurable to her.

“I’m… sorry,” he gasps out, his body still on fire from his orgasm.

“Quite the… let down,” Morrigan replies, sounding utterly bored.

“…Sorry.”

He hears her sigh, and then she’s on top of him again. He has to see now, can’t keep his eyes from darting between her legs. There’s short, black hair, hiding where he had been inside her just moments before. _Maker_ , she had been so soft and warm, feeling better than anything he had ever imagined. He just wishes he had lasted longer, had had the time to savour he feeling he’s sure he won’t be privileged to get again after his performance.

“You’re not going to be the only one getting pleasure out of this,” Morrigan decides, reaching for his tunic and wiping between her legs. Alistair’s cheeks are on fire when he can see his seed, leaking out of her and onto the fabric of his clothes.

She scoots her way up, until her groin is above his face, and he can see _everything_. Pink and wet, smelling oddly inviting, though a bit strange. He guesses he’ll have to get used to it as she lowers herself down, his tongue darting out to lick into her hole. Morrigan groans, grinding down against his tongue making its way inside her. He has no idea what to do, with his tongue nor his hands, so he ends up just stabbing his tongue into her repeatedly, holding onto her hips with his hands.

“Farther up,” Morrigan orders, and Alistair follows, though confused. He stops when she hisses as his tongue meets a nub just an inch or so above her hole, experimentally licking over it again to see if it was that what had made her make those noises.

“Careful,” Morrigan warns, grabbing his hair and pushing his head back into the pillow. “Circling motions – gentle, you moron.”

Alistair nods as best as he can with her pussy still in his face and goes back to licking over her – in circles now, like she wants. Her moans make him groan against her as his cock hardens again, and he wants to reach down to wrap his hand around himself, but he can’t – Morrigan’s legs are in the way, and he’d feel too embarrassed to do that in front of her, anyway.

He moans against her again as his cock jerks, and he can see her look behind her at where he’s hard and aching. She slides down his body again, leaving his mouth behind all warm and wet, covered in her juices. He licks his lips, letting his tongue travel over them and then around in his mouth, savouring her taste. He closes his eyes as Morrigan touches him again, angling him upwards as she sinks down on him, sheathing him fully inside her. He grabs for her, but she intercepts his hands and puts them on her breasts instead of on her hips. Alistair might go mad with pleasure, die of it before the night is over.

He watches as she rubs over the nub herself, all the while bouncing on top of him, making him unable to do anything else but lie there and let her do things to him, too focused on how good it feels to try anything that might stop her.

It lasts longer this time, at least, though it only takes him a few minutes to reach that point of no return again. When Morrigan begins clenching around him, moaning out her release, he’s done for, grabbing her waist and pulling her close against him as he spills inside of her once more, biting his lip in an effort to keep quiet. She gets off him almost immediately, reaching for Alistair’s clothes and throwing it on top of his head. He doesn’t even move, he’s so tired.

“Get out.”

“I’m sleepy.”

“You have your own tent.”

“But it’s so far way!”

“None of my concern.”

Alistair sighs, ripping his tunic off his face and – _Maker_ , there’s his seed, wet and cold against his cheek as he pulls it away. He won’t be able to wear it tomorrow without washing, or else he would have to explain some very obvious stains to a giggling Zevran.

“Can I sleep here?” He asks, giving his best puppy eyes to Morrigan. She rolls her eyes and sighs, lying next to him, so close their arms and legs are touching. He takes it as an invitation to stay the night, throwing the tunic away.

“You’ll be gone before I wake up,” Morrigan decides before turning her back to him, and Alistair nods solemnly, hoping he would wake up before her.

He doesn’t want to know what she would do to him come morning if he was still sleeping.


End file.
